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Down 'Round 
Our Pier 

AND OTHER POEMS 




JAMES M. WOODMAN 



Down 'Round Our Pier 

and 

Other Poems 



BY 

JAMES M. WOODMAN 



^ 



PUBLISHED BY 

THE GAZETTE PUBLISHING CO. 

WAUKEGAN, ILLINOIS 



,0 



4<^ 



TO 

i^B jfrtrnD0, 

WHO HAVE OFFERED SUGGESTIONS AND EXPRESSED 

APPRECIATION, THIS BOOK IS MOST 

AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED. 







jForetoorli 

This little book of verse is made up from 
the result of the "daily grind" in the office of a 
newspaper. No attempt has been made, nor 
hope entertained, to have the homely rhymes 
do more than touch upon such subjects as are 
dear to my own home folks, and others who 
like the commonplace and easily understood 
things of life. 

All of these poems have been published 
in the Waukegan Daily Gazette upon the day 
they were written, and in answer to many 
requests by those who have read them from 
day to day asking for them in a more perm- 
anent form, this volume has been compiled. 

JAMES M. WOODMAN. 

Waukegan, III, December 25th, 1916. 



Copyright 1916 

By 

James M. Woodman. 



JAN -2 1217 



DOWN 'ROUND OUR PIER. 

Of all th' sports, it pears t' me 

Th' best 'at comes along, by gee, 

When summer skies er warm an' clear, 
Is swimmin' down around our pier. 

An' there is somethin' soothin' like 

T' see a chubby little tyke 
Who's back's all browned by wind an' sun, 

Down 'round our pier a-havn' fun. 

An' so of all th' places w^here 

Th' sands and waves, an' sky an' air 
Are perfect, I aint got no fear 

T' claim it's down around our pier. 

Some folks don't care fer it I s'pose, 

But when I go an' shed my clothes 

Down 'round our pier, it makes me think 
Thet I am right on Heaven's brink. 

It seems t' bring back faces too. 

Of fellers thet I one time knew; 

An' — one night, settin' on our pier 

I spunked right up and called her dear. 

Last ev'nin' as she held my hand, 

We roamed 'way back in Mem'ry's land, 
I whispered, "Where'll w^e go to dear? "- — 

"Let's stroll," she said, "down 'round our pier. 



MY MOTHER. 

A modest little woman, with a little 

wrinkled face; 
But the kindness which is in it, no 

furrows can erase: 
I often sit and watch her when the ev'ning 

tw^ilight comes. 
And listen to the music of the quaint old 

song she hums, 
While my mind goes bounding backward, 

throughout the bygone days 
To recollect her goodness in 9 thousand 

little ways. 

I can see a chubby fellow a-coming home 

at night 
To claim a royal w^elcome from the one of 

whom I write: 
I can see her tuck him gently within a 

snow^-white bed, 
With a pray'rful benediction, that the 

Master overhead 
Would ever guide the footsteps of the boy 

she loved so true. 
And grant a Father's pardon, for the wrongs 

he chanced to do. 

And so, I still adore her, though her 

youthful beauty's gone: 
As her form grows ever frailer, there seems 

to clearly dawn 
A sweetness in her actions, which doth bind 

her close to me 
By a million endless fetters that will not 

let me free: 
God bless and keep her ever, — ^like her, 

there is no other; — 
She was my chum; my sweetheart; I love her; 

she's my mother. 



RIGHT HERE AT HOME. 

I've seen a lot o* people of various 

shapes an' style; 
An* some of them I haven't liked, an' 

some I've liked a pile. 
But no matter where I've met 'em, nor 

where I've chanced to roam, 
I've alius had a hankerin' fer folks 

right here at home. 

A feller wakes at mOrnin' in a swell 

hotel an' goes 
Down t' th' breakfast table — after 

puttin' on his clothes; 
He tucks his napkin 'neath his chin 

an' reads th' bill o' fare; 
An' wonders who invented all th' things 

that greets him there. 

That hour with me has alius been a 

time t' set an' dream 
About th' coffee back at home — sometimes 

without no cream: — 
Th' oilcloth-covered table an* th* 

roarin' kitchen fire; 
My wife, an' in a high-chair, a baby 

settin' by 'er. 

Now perhaps I am old fashioned an' 

out o' date a bit; 
But ef I am, by jing! I ain't th' 

leastwise 'shamed of it: 
An' so I claim there ain't no folks nor 

place 'neath heaven's dome, 
Thet half compares with w^hat a feller 

finds Hght here at home. 



WHEN THE EVENING SHADOWS FALL. 

Oh the things which give us pleasure 

when busy days are done; 
When shadows come to greet us with 

the setting of the sun; 
Which make our hearts beat faster and 

which Hghten up our load, 
Are the things we've done for others 

along Life's weary road. 

It isn't what we've gathered in 

to place upon our shelf; — 
True happiness was never bought 

with worldly greed and pelf: — 
'Tis our little acts of kindness, 

that cast upon the wall 
The figures which delight us when 

the ev'ning shadows fall. 

'Tis he who muses fondly o'er the 

actions of a day. 
All conscious of the fact he's helped 

some brother on his way, 
Who can claim the crowning glory that 

God would have men know 
When days of toil are over and the 

sun is sinking low. 

And so, it's when I'm sitting with 

my children on my knee, 
In the soft and mellow twilight, — their 

mother watching me; — 
If I've done some act of kindness, 

the Maker of us all 
Seems just a wee bit closer as the 

ev'ning shadows fall. 



UNCLE JERRY'S LOGIC. 

Uncle Jerry Haskins was th* man who 

mended shoes; 
Us fellers uster drop around an' git 

th' latest news 
In his shop, an' listen also t' th' 

logic he possessed, — 
An' th' quaintness of th' language 

in which it was expressed. 

I'd ruther set an' listen t' th' words 

thet Jerry said. 
An' see him lift his cap a bit an' rub 

his old bald head, 
An' chaw his baccer as he'd squint out 

through his glasses, than 
T' own the greatest fortune thet was 

ever made by man. 

I 'member oncet when we was all a-settin' 

'round one day, 
A-list'nin' to his w^isdom as he punched 

an' pegged away. 
He told us how he b'lieved most men could 

get along all right 
Ef they'd fergit their neighbor's work, 

an' keep their own in sight. 

He summed it up about like this, — 

**The time fer me er you 
'*T' manage other folks affairs an' tell 

'em what t' do, 
"Is when they've failed completely, an' 

by their actions shown 
"They can't work out th' problems of their 

biziness, alone." 



'ROUND 'BOUT HERE. 

I hev been around a trifle, an' dropped 

in here an there; 
I've seen some places which were fine, 

an' others, — w^ell, jest fair: 
I've heerd men brag about their towns, 

but I aint go no fear 
T' claim they aint no spot on earth 

compares with 'round 'bout here. 

Of course I'm w^illin' t' admit thet ef 

folks hed a show^ 
They might hev made things difl'rently, 

but somehow, don't you know, 
I kinder b'lieve when God designed th* 

world, he purty near 
picked out th* best material t' build 

things 'round 'bout here. 

Some folks is alius figgetin* about 

this "Vale of Tears;" — 
Why, bless your soul, I'd like t' stay 

'round here a millyun years! 
An* then pass on t' w^here I'd meet th* 

old friends true an' dear, 
A-livin' like they uster did w^hen they 

was 'round 'bout here. 



SWEETEST LINK IN MEMORY'S CHAIN 

Oh the days of long ago 

In a land I used to know, 
Where the summer skies were ever brightest blue, 

Lived a lassie, sweet and fair, 

With a crown of golden hair, 
And a heart she promised always would be true. 

Though that time is far away, 

I can see her now today, 
Just as when we wandered by the old mill stream; 
As we clasped each other's hands, 

And we talked about the lands 
That we'd visit, — in our happy childhood dream. 

I can see her dainty dress. 

And remember each caress, — 
As we sat within those nooks of Nature's mold: 

And the silv'ry voice I heard. 

Sweeter than the song of bird 
Comes to me once more as in the days of old. 

For, each ev'ning on my knee, 

Where her wond'rous eyes I see. 
Do I fondly stroke and kiss each golden curl; — 

Looking back into the past, 

As I told her, oh, so fast, — ^ ^ ^^ 

While she lisps, "I's 'urs an' mammas *ittle girl. 



•A FRIEND IS NATURE'S MASTERPIECE." 

Old Nature made a lot o' things t' help 

th' human race: 
She fashioned mountains, trees an' flow'rs 

this good old world t' grace: 
Beneath th' briny ocean's waves are 

wonders without end; 
But of her works I think th' best is jest 

a true-blue friend. 

When days are dark an' dreary, an' a 

feller's down an' out; 
An' th' clouds keep back th' sunshine, an' 

th' w^orld seems full o' doubt; 
It's purty nice t' know thet you kin slip 

around an' spend 
An hour or two w^ith someone thet you 

know's a true-blue friend. 

Now folks kin hev their money, an' hev all 

th' things 'twill buy; 
An' travel 'round an' put on airs an* 

think they're flyin' high: — 
But, give me love and sunshine, as old 

Nature made 'em blend 
Within th' heart of one I know who's proved 

a true-blue friend. 



THE HOUSE OF "NEVER' 

^There's a house that's known as "Never," 

in the street called "By-and-By;" 
And the people who reside there, care 

not how moments fly; 
For they're never in a hurry, and they 

ne'er possess a care, 
And they greet their obligations with 

a dreamy, vacant stare. 

'Tis a quiet, shady pathw^ay, that street 

called "By-and-By;" 
Of course the folks one meets there are 

not like you and I. 
We're told the house of "Never" is very 

cold and drear. 
Though it opens wide its portals to all 

who passeth near. 

The world is looking ever for the men 

who "do it now!" 
Results are what we're seeking, — we 

don't ask why or how: — 
So if you'd gain our favor, just take 

advice and try 
To shun the house of "Never," in the 

street called "By-and By." 



NEIGHBOR. FRIEND AND WIFE 

Miss Sarah was our neighbor an' she uster 

come an' set 
An* visit ma an' me o' nights, an' I 

kin see her yet, 
With her polka-dotted wrapper, an' curls 

jest tinged with gray. 
As plain as though 'twant years ago, but 

only yistaday. 

An' as she talked o' picklin' an' o* 

cannin' fruit, I sat 
An' smoked my pipe, w^hile mother *d nod, 

an' smile a bit, an' tat; 
Then all at oncet it daw^ned 'pon me thet 

'twasn't quite th' same 
When we was left t* set alone — as 'twere 

when Sarah came. 

I found my heart beat faster w^hen she 

entered at th' door; 
An' though I wouldn't own it then, each 

day I liked her more: 
An* finally one even'n' I jest tuk her 

home, an' — well, 
Th' things I sed t' Sarah are too sacred 

fer t' tell. 

But, since th' years of joy an* w^oe hev 

glided on apace. 
An' Time hez slowly worn th' furrows 

deep upon my face, 
I thank th' Lord who guided me, a-watchin* 

o'er my life — 
An' Seu-ah sez she thanks Him too fer makin* 

her my wife. 



BLOSSOM TIME 

Oh, the blossoms in the trees 
Kissed by sun and fanned by breeze; 
With your white and pink and blue, 
Set with diamonds made of dew: 

How I love to sit and drink 
Of your fragrance, as I think, — 
Dreaming o'er life's hope and feeir 
Of the far-gone yesteryear. 

Oh, the blossoms how they bring 
Old-time scenes to me each Spring; — 
I can see a gingham dress 
As a little hand I press: 

Throat as white as that which grew 
Up among the pink and blue; 
And a pair of azure eyes 
Purer than the summer skies: 

Memory brings back once more 
Dimpled cheeks and smiles of yore; 
Twittering of mating birds — 
And my Mary's whispered words. 

When my Father calls for me, 
I am going to ask that He 
Let me rest forever, where 
Springtime blossoms scent the air. 



WHEN THE ODOR OF THE COFFEE COMES 
A-FLOATIN' UP THE SJAIRS 

There's lots uv things that please a man 

when he is feelin' good; 
An' has an appetite that's strong an' 

serves him as it should: 
But th' thing that's alius soothed me, an* 

driv away all cares, 
Is t' smell th' breakfast coffee a floatin' 

up th' stairs. 

When a feller lies a stretchin' an' hatin' 

fer t' rise; 
An' he pokes his head from under an' rubs 

his sleepy eyes; 
There's nuthin' half so pleasin' as it hits 

him unawares 
As th' odor uv th' coffee a-floatin' up 

the stairs. 

By heck! I've staid w^here folks declared th' 

service wuz supreme; 
In hotels where they drenched th' cheapest 

kinds uv food in cream: 
Where gold wuz smeared on bedsteads an' 

plastered on th' chairs; — 
But no odor uv th' coffee came a-floatin' 

up th' stairs. 

Now you kin choose th' places where th* 

sun in winter-time 
Makes roses bloom an' folks all claim th' 

climate is snblin^e; 
But as fer me, I'll stay at home an' not 

put on no airs, 
An' smell my coffee in th' morn a-floatin* 
up th' stairs. 



AT THE CIRCUS 

Of all th' things a feller sees, 
From dancin' bears to fightin' fleas; 
The zebras an' giraffes an' things 
That crawl or move about on wings; — 
To me there's one thing which alone 
Is best of all — 

th' 

slide 

trombone. 

Th' elephants an' monkeys too; 

Th' camels an' th' kangaroo; 

Th' lions an' th' tiger cat; 

An' clowns in funny dress an' hat 

Are great, but still I'll have t' own — 

Th' best of all's 

th' 

slide 

trombone. 

When he who plays that horn takes flight 
An' hits th' upper scale just right; 
An' then drops down past lower "C," 
He sends a 'lectric shock, by gee 
Right down my back, — an' I have grown 
T' like it best — 

th' 

slide 

trombone. 



WHEN SHE'S AWAY 



When she's away it seems t' me 
Life aint jest what it used t' be. 

I don't feel right, 

My heart aint light, 
As when I know she's somewhere near. 
,The birds somehow don't never sing; 
An' nuthin' don't no pleasure bring; 

All through th' day 

Th' skies are gray, — 
An' I keep wishin' she w^as here. 

When she's away a shadder seems 

T' shet out all th' old sun's bleams; 

An* then at night. 

Tears come t' blight 
An* keep the stars from shinin' clear. 
Th' gentlest breeze seems but a sigh; 
Flow'rs hang their heads and 'pear t* cry; 

Each rose-tree leaf 

Is drooped in grief; — 
An' I keep wishin' she was here. 



AS LITTLE SISTER SEES IT 

When brother Willie pouts an' snarls, an' 

acts like bad boys do; 
An' bawls an' sniffles 'round th' house, 

an' uses cuss words too; 
Nen Mamma looks at Pa an' sez — "That 

child inherits that; 
"He's dest exactly like your folks, th' 

nasty little brat." 

But, when Bill goes t' Sunday School an' 

sez th' Scripture verse; 
An' prays an' tells his teacher dear 'at 

he wont never curse; 
Ner smoke, ner chew, ner cheat th' poor 

ner other chil'ren strike; — 
Ma sez, — "He's dest like our folks, th* 

darlin' little tyke." 

That I am not a little boy like Willie, 

makes me glad; 
'Cause he's like Ma's folks when he's good, 

an' Pa's folks when he's bad:, 
But, I am dest like our folks, an' I 

think that's best you know, 
'Cause there aint no folks like our folks, 

no matter where you go. 



WERE I A POET 

Could I but write as poets do about 

the things I love; 
The trees and flow'rs and Autumn days, 

with skies of blue above: 
I'd tune my harp and w^ield my pen in 

sweetest song to you, — 
Could I but dream the dreams of love, 

and write as poets do. 

Could I but see as poets see, how fondly 

I would gaze 
Back o'er the scenes of other times, and 

live again the days 
When I met you my Mary, beneath the 

trysting tree, — 
Could I possess the vision and see as 

poets see. 

Could I but know as poets know the words 

which please the ear; 
I'd write you messages of joy, throughout 

each coming year; 
And always, aye, forever, where'er I'd 

chance to go, 
I'd send you Love's sweet tokens — could 

I like poets know. 

Alas! I aint no poet, dear, but I'll stick 

'round and try 
To see the tootsey-wootsev love that's 

shining in your eye: 
I'll do the lovey-dovey act the best that 

I know' how; 
And be "your man," by heck! and thank the 

Lord that 3'ou're my "frow." 



THE HUMAN MAINSPRING 

I've heard it said by some old sage 
Who lived back in another age, 

How, after careful thought he learned, 

The great success for which men yearned, 

All centered on the way they wound 

The spring which kept them going 'round. 

In many lives, the old chap said. 

All chances for success have fled, 

By not adhering to the rule 

That's taught in ev'ry common school, 

'Bout winding up our spring each day — 
But, always in the proper way. 

So, by this reas'ning one can see, 
The motive pow^er in you and me 

May take us forward, or reverse. 

Bring Fortune's smile or Failure's curse. 

It all depends upon the way 

We wind our mainspring day by day. 



GOLDEN GLOW 

Some folks are fond o' purple, an* 

others like the blue 
Thet gleams from out th' heavens where th* 

stars are shinin' through: 
I've heerd some fellers rave 'bout red, 

but I would hev you know, 
I favor most the yaller of th' purty 
golden glow. 

Now perhaps it ain't their color alone 

thet 'peals t' me; 
But somehow them old poisies are most 

awful good to see: 
They carry me back yonder in a rapt'rous, 

wondrous spell, — 
An' they sort o' whisper sweetly of where 

I useter dwell. 

I fancy jest beside 'em I kin see 

a little face 
Beneath a pink sunbonnet, an' in dreams 

I take an' place 
A tiny hand within my own an' breathe 

th' old vows o'er, — 
T* be her lover always an' t' leave 
her never more. 

So you may hev th' purple of th' violet, 

an* red 
Of rose, an' blue thet greets you in th* 

heavens overhead; 
But I will choose the yaller, an I'll 

spend an hour or so. 
With my little boyhood sweetheart — ^beside 

th* golden glow. 



DRIFTING 

There is sure a lot of floaters 

a-driftin' with the tide, 
Who never use an oar to help as 

'long life's stream they glide. 
I hev noticed thet they always 

never hev a cent to spend, 
And gin'relly are lookin' for 

some feller that'll lend. 

'Course the driftin' Ufe is easy, 

but brings reward that's small; 
When a feller's through the journey 

there's nothin' gained at all. 
No folks never seek a drifter, and 

no one seems to ceire 
Ef he's comin' or he's goin' or 

never gets nowhere. 

So's 'long as nothin' comes much 
from driftin' with the flow. 
You'd best head up the river 

and buckle in and row. 
Of course your hands'U blister, 

but that won't count, I guess, 
When you're landed in the harbor — 
the harbor of Success. 



I LIKE THE OLD FRIENDS BEST 

When I get t' thinkin' sometimes, about 

th' days of old, 
Or list'nin* t' some story of th' past 

that's bein' told, 
I find my heart a-beatin' in time t' 

thoughts express'd, — 
I guess it's 'cause I somehow kinda 

like th' old friends best. 

Of course they know our ev'ry fault and 

all about th* past; 
Just when we couldn't pay our bills, or 

when we lived too fast: 
They knew th' gals who jilted us, but, 

still they've stood th' test. 
And, while other folks may knock *em— 

I like th' old friends best. 

I aint agen th' makin' of new friends, 

oh no, not me; 
A feller can't have more'n he needs — 

on that we'll all agree; 
But, as you go along Life's road, allow 

me to suggest, 
A plan that works out well is jest t' 

like th' old friends best. 



THE OLD-TIME VILLAGE 3TORE 

They wuz seated 'round th' wood fire, 
in th' old-time village store; — < 

You hev seen thet aggregation which 
assembled years afore 

Them new rural routes wuz started, an' 
th* farmers liked t' go 

Down t' git th' mail an' papers, — an* 
converse an hour 'r so. 

Old man Watkins touched th' "poor box," 

fer a pipeful uv th' weed, 
An' opined 'twas gittin' 'round t' where 

he'd buy his garden seed; — 
An' then th' talk veered 'round a bit an* 

settled down once more 
On Blaine an' Logan who was runnin' back 

in eighty-four. 

Deacon Snippers stroked his galways as he 

cleared his throat an' spat 
*Pon th' stove, an slyly squinted out 

from underneath his hat, 
An' allowed thet Grover Cleveland, "hed a 

splendid show t' win;" — 
Then he wiped th' stray t'baccer, — ^on his 

coat sleeve — from his chin. 

Time hez gone, an* with it taken all 

them good old fashioned men; 
Gee! I'd like t' be a-settin' list'nin' 

t' their talk agen! 
Why, I'd almost trade my future fer t* 

grasp their hands once more 
Down where hearts wuz beatin' loyal, 

'round the old-time village store. 



DE TURKEY'S ROOSTIN' HIGH 

When de col' wind ob November am 

a-whirlin* roun' de farm; 
An* de mellerness ob autumn lends 

its sweet enchantin' charm; 
When golden punkins 'pear ter grin 

as a feller passes by, 
I hab noticed dat de turkeys gits 

ter roostin* moughty high. 

Den I sez ter my ole mammy as she 

mixes up de dough 
Fer de buckwheats in de mornin*, 

I sez "Honey, doncher know, 
"It's nearin* ob de time to thank 

de ole Lord dat you and I 
"Is spared to live agen *til now, 

when de turkey's roostin* high.** 

De best thing 'bout Thanksgivin* Day, 

fer de folks dat's old is when, 
De chilluns come and bring de babes 

to de ole home once agen. 
An* so we watch de yallerin* ob de 

com and heab a sigh, 
Fer de joy dats boun* ter f oiler — 

when de turkey*s roostin' high. 



OUR OLD LAKE SHORE 

There's lots o' folks who seem t* think 

they ought t' go from home, 
An' I've met some who've bragged about 

th' fact they'd been in Rome. 
It may be satisfyin' but I never found 

much more 
Real comfort anyw^here than down along 

our. old lake shore. 

Now take it 'long in August when th' 

mercury goes high, — 
Say up around th' ninety mark an' folks 

'ud like t' die 
T' git away from sufferin' as I hev 

said before, — 
A feller finds real comfort down along 

our old lake shore. 

There aint much style or beauty, jest a 

shanty here an' there; 
But, it takes me oflF t* dreamland as a 

soothin' kind of cdr 
Comes floatin' o'er th* water — an* our 

people by th* score 
Jest meander down fer comfort along 

our old lake shore. 

Do you know I can't help hopin' thet 

when this life is done. 
An* I with all th' others go a-marchin* 

one by one 
Up t* th* seat o' jedgment in bey on . 

th' p)early door, 
I'll land where 'taint no hotter than along 

our old lake shore. 



TWO TYPES 

Old Samuel Crosby had a way 

Of livin* right — he used to say, 
That he hoped he'd never live to know, 

The time when he would have to go 
Around a block, jest for fear he'd meet 

Some feller w^hom he'd chanced to cheat. 
He wasn't rich — but he didn't care — 

Nobody said that he wasn't square. 

In the same old hamlet. Elder Flagg 

Stood 'round the corner stores; he'd brag 
How he'd "got square" with some one who 

Had been a-laying to ketch him too. 
He'd chuckle and rub his hands in glee. 

And wink his eye, and say, "you see 
"By heck, there's not many w^ho'll compare 

"With me, by jing, in gittin' square." 

Now maybe you in the days gone by. 

Have known such men, the same as I: 
They breathed each day of the self same air, 

But when it came to being square — 
Their thoughts were as diff'rent as could be; 

It aWays used to puzzle me. 
To know how the Elder'd scheme and pray 

To square himself on the Judgment Day. 



THE OLD BRONZE BUTTON 

I know it isn't purty, still it means 

a lot t' me, 
With its somber, dull appearance an' 

pure simplicity: 
But it symbolizes victory, an* that 

is why I gloat 
With pride upon the old bronze button 
here upon my coat. 

It cost a lot t' get it too, of blood, 

an' tears, an strife; 
It tells a tale of shot an' shell, an' 

loss of youthful life; 
Of parting sighs an' muffled drums, — 

where Freedom's strong arm smote; — 
It's dear t' me, the old bronze button 

here upon my coat. 

An' while it isn't purty, well that 

doesn't count, you know. 
With fellers when they're old like me, 

their hair as white as snow: — 
But, 'cause it tells me o'er this land 

Old Glory e'er will float, 
I love t' w^ear the old bronze button 

here upon my coat. 



JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY 

Where have you gone, Jim Riley, an' why 

did you go away? 
The world is sad w^ithout you, an' our 

heads are bowed t'day: 
We seek you w^here we knew you in th' 

days of long ago, 
But you answer not our callin' — ^where 

are you? Let us know. 

Have you gone t' "Orphant Annie," or 

t' th' "Home Folks," Jim? 
Are you out at "Old Aunt Mary's," or 

settin' on th' rim 
Of thet dear "Old Swimmin* Hole," where 

we w^ent in times of yore, 
A-dreamin' of "The Days Gone By," — ^won't 

you come back no more? 

Perhaps you're closely snuggled where 

th' honeysuckles tw^ine, 
Beside her whom you told us was "That Old 

Sweetheart Of Mine:" 
An* maybe workin* near you in his good 

old fashioned way 
"The Raggedy Man" is mo win' a field of 

wondrous hay. 

When you gathered all th' sunshine an' 

mixed it with th* mirth 
Of th* children an' th' flow'rs of this 

cold an' dreary earth. 
You won our hearts Jim Riley, an* that's 

why we loved you so, — 
But we know you'll make folks happy, 

where'er you've chose t* go. 



So, fare thee well, Jim Riley, we can 

guess where you have gone: 
May angels lull you off t' sleep an' 

waken you at dawn 
A-playin' on their harps of gold, with 

notes as sw^eet an' true. 
As th* tinkle of th' drippin' of tiny 

drops of dew. 



A CHRISTMAS PRAYER 

Oh Lord, on this great Christmas eve, I pray, 
That You will grant me light to see the way 

That You would have me go. 
Unblind my eyes that I my faults may see; 
And teach me ev'ry hour to honor Thee, 

While I am here below. 

Give me, my Savior, strength to serve each friend 
And all my fellow men, until the end 

Your beck'ning hand 1 see — 
As Thou didst serve. And, grant that I may do, 
For those, who, weak and falt'ring prove untrue, 

As Thou h£ist done for me. 

Each day which is to come, with me abide; 
Aid me to rise above Life's surging tide, 

And profit by each fall. 
For all I have, I offer thanks this hour; 
In all I do, I recognize Thy pow'r; 

Great King and Lord of all. 



AWAKENED MEMORIES 

I hev heard th' opry music thet was 

made far folks who's taste 
Is cultivated fer that trash, but I've 

no time t' w^aste 
Upon them high falutin' tunes — I'd 

ruther pay my gold, 
To hear agen them airs I loved so well 

in days of old. 

There's one that alius thrills me, 'cause 

it's sweeter than th' rest; 
An' of all th' old-time music, it seems 

t' suit me best; 
I think now^ how I sung it, how it filled 

my soul with bliss — 
"Do you love me, Molly darlin'?"- — an* 

she answered with a kiss. 

"Stars are shinin', Molly darlin';" — clear 

the echoes come to me. 
Through th' mystic haze of mem'ry, and I 

fondly fancy thee 
Settin* here within my study, livin* o'er 

life's sweetest dream. 
As we planned it, Molly darlin', — down 

along th' wildwood stream. 

''Tell me Molly that you love me," — I 

will ne'er forget th' words, — 
Sweeter than th' breath of roses; sweeter 

than th' trill of birds. — 
Other songs may come t' greet me, but 

I'll alius cling t' this, — 
"Do you love me, Molly darlin'? Let 

your answer be a kiss." 



ALONG IN AUGUS' TIME 

Some folks is moughty pa'shal tuh de 

fiel's ob wintry snow: 
An' othahs tuh de Springtime when de 

flow'rs begin tuh grow: 
But, Ise a-Iongin' evah fo' dat 

season mos' sublime, 
When de katydids am singin' — along 

in Angus' time. 

An' yo' know 'twas long in Augus' 

'way down in Alabam,' 
Ah fust done called yo' Liza, an' yo' 

done call meh Sam: 
An' yo' whispah'd w^ords was sweeter *n 

de tinklin', silbry chime 
Ob de weddin' bells ob Heaben — along 
in Augus' time. 

So Ise prayin' tuh mah Sabior dat when 

dis life is o'er, 
An' we all am gone a-sleepin' tuh nevah 

wake no more, 
He'll let meh res' fo'evah whaih de 

honeysuckles climb, 
Jes' same's like when Ah won mah Lize — 

along in Augus' time. 



PEONIES 

My mother called 'em "pi-nies" in th' 

days of long ago; 
As she used to wander slowly down 

w^here th' blossoms grow^: 
An* while I've found in latter years 

she blundered w^ith the name, 
I somehow like t' think of them as she 
did, just the same. 

You see it doesn't matter when a feller's 

gittin* long; 
To where he's sort o' list'nin' fer th' 

ringin' of th' gong 
That'll summon him on yonder — that is, 

I mean t' say, — 
He rather likes t' live again, back in 

his boyhood day. 

An* so while others choose t' call *em 

peonies today; 
They kinder lose their charm fer me when 

mentioned in thet way. 
That's why I call 'em **pi-nies" an* I 

know that you'll agree. 
My mother's name fer them old flow'rs is 

good enough fer me. 



HE'S ONLY A BOY 

He's only a boy, a freckled faced boy; 

His hands aren't always clean. 
He's been told and told that little boys, 

Should not be heard — just seen. 
But still, he is only a boy, and so 

Until he grows to a man, 
Let's see that he's just a wholesome boy, 

And help him all we can. 

He is only a boy, and yet his heart 

Responds with the same great joy, 
,That filled our hearts, when someone remarked, 

"You'll soon be a man, my boy." 
As his little mind unfolds, and he grasps 

The work he'll do when a man. 
Let's see as a boy, he has a chance — 

And help him all we can. 

Now we all are boys, just grown up you know; 

Our hands aren't always clean: 
But God won't say on the judgment day — 

"You're not to be heard — ^just seen." 
As our suppliant cry goes up to Him, 

As He sees a poor w^eak man. 
Let's hope He will overlook our faults. 

And help us all He can. 



MORNIN' GLORIES 

I hev seen th* sort o' posies thet 

some folks rave about; 
Th' kind thet grows in under glass, an' 

others thet grow out: 
Chrysanthemums, carnations an' lillies 

pure an' white, — 
But t' me th' mornin' glory's about 

th' nicest sight. 

When I look dow^n in th' center o' one 

o' them old flow^'rs, 
I see a little cottage neath its vine 

enclustered bow'rs: 
I live my boyhood over in a dreamy sort 

o' w^ay, — 
So, I like th' wondrous glories that 

bloom at break o' day. 

'Twas in th' dusky shadder o' th' mornin* 

glory vine, 
I held th' hand o' Molly as I begged her 

t' be mine: — 
I bless the Lord thet made 'em, — 'cause 

she answ^ered with a kiss. 
An' plucked a blossom, saying, — "May our 

love be pure as this." 

Now you may have the fancy flow'rs thet 

other people grow 
By steam in cold December time away from 

w^inds thet blow^: 
But, I will choose th* blossoms thet in 

th' breezes sway, — 
Th* wondrous mornin* glories that awake 

at break o' day. 



AS WE CLIMB LIFE'S HILL 

I met an ancient trav'ler on Life's 

downward path, as I 
Pushed on to win the laurels at the 

hilltop near the sky. 
His step was slow and falt'ring and 

his eye no longer bright, 
While I had youth and vigor, with 

a heart and spirits light. 

We tarried by the roadside while I 

listened to the tale, 
Of he who'd reached the summit and 

journeyed toward the vale. 
I learned the joys of living come to 

mortals, as they trace 
The patlis which lead them upward — 

when the sunshine's in their face. 

The lesson which I gathered from this 

man, I'll give to you; — 
"Just keep your soul a-singing and 

your heart a-beating true; 
"Keep a-smiling, laugh at trouble and 

drive away each frown; 
"Plant the rose-trees going upward, 

pick the blossoms coming down." 



DOWN ON PEARCE'S CORNER 

Surest signs of Spring I know's when 

th* sun gits up, 'bout noon; 
An' mos* folks hez hed their lunch an* 

er whisselin' a tune; 
Jes* defyin' northeast blasts, solemn 

like az eny mourner — 
Are those fellers who stand 'round, 

down on Pearce's Corner. 

'Long th' south side o' th place aint 

no chilly blowin' breeze 
Hits their tender skins, they stand, gittin' 

all th' sun they please. 
Spittin' 'baccer juice an' cussin', every 

one a scorner 
Of th' law^ against such things — 

down on Pearce's Corner. 

Politics is all thrashed o'er; ordinances 

er passed an' beat; 
Ev'ry woman's past is raked az she wanders 

down th* street. 
But, they're harbingers of Spring, and, we'd 

be forlorner 
Ef th' cops would chase 'em 'way — 

down on Pearce's Corner. 



FOR HIMSELF 

Old Deacon Squeers was a fine old man — 

For himself. 
He seemed to work right along God's plan — 

For himself. 
On Sunday morn' I have often heard 
Him weep as he read the holy word, 
And pray that the judgment be deferred — 

For himself. 

There wasn't a thing he wouldn't do — 

For himself. 
If he got an inch he wanted two — 

For himself. 
When the neighbors thrashed he'd call to say 
How sad he was that he couldn't stay — 
"He had something else to do that day" — 

For himself. 

And so the old deacon lived and died — 

For himself. 
And when we planted him, no one cried — 

For himself. 
And I'll bet a hat, if the story old 
About Heaven's street as I've heard told 
Is true, that the deacon's got the gold — 

For himself. 



OCTOBER 

Blessings on thee old October with 

your crisp and bracing air; 
And your trees of brownish color, 

with a green one here and there. 
Mystic haze that o'er the meadow and 

the woodland seems to dwell, — 
Parting incense to the songsters, who 

will soon bid us farewell. 

Nature comes to join October, comes 
to claim again her own; 

Comes to reap the golden harvest of 
the things which she has grown. 

But it brings a touch of sadness, when 
the summer starts to wane 

And we hug her closel}'^ to us hoping 
that she might remain. 

In each life comes old October, when 

the grain is gathered in; 
Lucky is the man who's owner of an 

overflow^ing bin. 
Read the lesson left by others, whom 

the olden past has know^n — 
When October comes, my brother, 

"ye shall reap as ye have sown . " 



THE MEN WE WANT 

There aint no place fer weaklin's in 

th' struggle of today; — 
Th' men who turn an' run fer cover 

when they'd orter stay: — 
Fair-weather men are not th' kind t' 

win a stubborn fight; 
Th' world wants those who will not 

quit because it's nearin' night. 

When to th' Rubicon, Great Caesar came, 

he wavered not; 
No falt'rin', weak-kneed action was t' 

cast its with'rin' blot 
Upon th' name of him who thrilled th' 

hearts of ancient Rome: — 
He crossed th' stream, an' as we say, 

"He brought th* bacon home." 

When Gen'rel Grant quit tannin' hides 

an' took t' drillin' men; 
He never stopped t' question w^hy, or 

where, or how, or when; 
But, when th' smoke was thickest, an* 

victory almost gone. 
He fought throughout th' dark'nin' hours 

an' w^on th' scrap at dawn. 

So, with all of hist'ry 'hind us, — 

its great lights here an* there; 
We're gettin' quite pertickler, an' 

unless you're on th' square 
An* possess a lot of courage to earn 

our praise an' pay, 
Pass on, old top, you're only standin* 

in some good man's way. 



WHEN DE SUMMAH GOES 

When summah-time am waning an* de 

crickets' song grows faint; 
An* de leabes is changin* color as 

Nature gins tuh paint 
De woods an' fiel's in Autumn dress, 

mah heart is always sad, — 
Mah thoughts goes wanderin' backward 

tuh days we useter had. 

Ah see de fiel's ob cotton in de balmy 

sunny land; 
An' sweet magnolia blossoms by de 

perfumed breezes fanned: 
An' mah deah ole Mammy restin' jest 

laik she useter do, 
Neaf de ivy-covered trellis w^ith de 

sunshine peekin' froo. 

But spesh'ly comes a picture ob a 

little gal 1 knew; 
Whose eyes w^as full ob sunshine as de 

heabens was ob blue: 
Whose vsrords was silbery music; w^hose 

smile w^as joy divine; — 
Way down in Ole Kaintucky, — w^hen she 

tole me she'd be mine. 

So when de summah's waning an* de 

yaller's in de trees; 
An de crickets' chirr comes fainter 

upon de eb'nin' breeze; 
Ah set an' hoi' her han' a bit an* 

lib de ole days froo, — 

When huh eyes was full ob sunshine 

as heaben w^as ob blue. 



HUSKIN* BEES 

When crickets cease t' sing their song; 
An' days git short, an' nights git long; 
When harvest grains are gathered in 
An* safely stowed in crib an' bin; 
When songsters southward wend their way 
'Neath skies of cold an' dreary gray; — 
I view th' unclothed, somber trees, 
An' dream of old-time huskin' bees. 

Gee! how I useter like t' go 

With her, — a drivin' 'long so slow 

Beneath th' silv'ry Autumn moon, 

T' where th' merry, happy tune 

Of laughter from th' buskers came 

,T' greet our ears, — an' play a game 

Of blind man's buff, — an' gently squeeze 

Her hand; — at them old huskin' bees. 

A.n' one night, comin' home quite late, 
1 spunked right up an* called her Kate; — 
An' asked her fer t' call me, Jim; — 
An when th' moon w^as kinder dim 
Behind a cloud, an' couldn't shine, 
Sle promised, always t' be mine: 
So of all social functions, please, 
Gi^e me mv share in huskin' bees. 



BEIN' GOOD 

We's a gonna have a Christmus at our 

house by an' by; 
An' Mamma sez ef I am good, an' don't 

pout 'round an' cry, 
She's gonna tell old Santy Claus to 

come an' put for me 
A lots of purty things I want, upon 

our Christmus tree. 
She sez 'at when I'm sleepin' sound, 

an' brother's sleepin' too; 
Nen old Santy'll come a crawlin' right 

down our chimbley flue. 

An' so from now 'til Christmus time, 

I'm gonna try to be 
Dest the sweetest little girlie 'at 

ever you did see. 
An' ef some boy sticks out his tongue 

an' makes fun of my curls, 
An' sez 'at boys is bestest, an' are 

twice as good as girls; 
Or, plagues mv cat, or steals my gum, 

I'll 'tend 'at I don't care; — 
'Cause old Santy might be watchin'. Ma 

sez he's everywhere! 

I'ln gonna mind my teacher, an' I'll 

wash my hands an' face; 
I'll bow my head when Grandma says, 

"be still vv^hile I say grace:" 
An* I wont sass our neighbors, 'cause 

dear Santy CIbit' rnicjht hear, — 
Ma sez 'at w^hen I least suspect, he's 

hiding somewhere near. 
Before I go to sleep each night, I'll 

pray for poor folks too; 
An' ask God dest to send old Santy 

down their chimbley flue. 



SHAKE DOWN YOUR FIRE 

Don't sit around and curse your luck 

because you didn't win! 
You've got to make another start; 

and if you don't begin 
Some other chap will head you off 

and beat you to the goal; — 
Shake down your fire, increase your steam, 

by throwing on some coal. 

What if you didn't hit the mark 

you tried to make today? 
What if some stronger man was found 

a-standing in your way? 
Your time is sure to come, strive on! 

don't sit around and wail! 
To men who make their mark in life 

there's no such word as "fail." 

The best of men will fall at times, — 

'twas meant to be that way 
By Him who planned the universe, — 

so, listen when I say. 
No matter what your failings be 

don't mope around and pine; 
The world has little use for folks 

who snap, and snarl, and whine. 

I'd rather shake the trembling hand 

and help onto his feet 
The struisgler, than to bask in smiles 

of millionaires I meet. 
And so I say to those who've failed 

at times to reach the goal, 
Shake down your fire, increase your steam, 

by throwing on some coal. 



JUNE 

When de eb'nin' shadders greet meh an' 

de sun hab sunk tuh rest; 
An' de mammy-bird am cuddlin' all her 

babies neaf her breast; 
When de chirrup ob de crickets sing 

ole Nature's sweetes' chune; 
Ah bless de Lord who 'lowed meh fer 

tuh lib until 'twas June. 

Hit was June-time dat was spoon-time 

in de days w^hen we was young; 
When we sat long side de cabin whaih 

de honeysuckles clung; 
An' Ah begged yo' please tuh tell meh, 

ef yo' loved meh jes' as true 
As de sta's what w^as a-peekin' froo de 

tree, — a-watchin' you. 

Now Ah caint persarsly question ob de 

Lord dat rules us all; 
Kase Ah s'pose He hab a reason fer de 

Winter, Spring an' Fall. 
But, ef He had asked mah 'pinion, Ah 

would give it moughty soon, — 
An' Ah'd coax Him — ef He'd listen, — fer 

tuh mek it all like June. 



BACK TO THE LAND 

When father leased the old homestead 

and moved to town, we boys 
All thought we nevermore would know 

aught else but earthly joys. 
There wouldn't be the cows to milk, 

nor any corn to hoe. 
And when we wanted, we could just 

pack up our grips and go. 

Well, for about a year or two things 

went along all right. 
We'd seen most all the picture shows — 

we'd gone most every night. 
We found a thousand places where we 

easily could spend 
The money Dad had saved, but, say, 

we hadn't found a friend. 

We have had our education, and just 

'twixt me and you. 
It cost us quite a fortune, but — 

we'ye learned a thing or two. 
So, now we're all a-going back to 

where the skies are blue, 
To where the neighbors love us with 

a love that's ever true. 

Old Daddy's dancing 'round in glee, 

and Mother sings all day — 
I'll bet the farm's been lonesome 

while they have been away. 
"Man made the city," preachers say,^ 

and "God, the pastures green." 
And, our folks wouldn't trade the farm 

for any town they've seen. 



NO OP'RY MUSIC FER ME 

Op'ry music is t' me, 
Nuthin' much ez I can see. 
How some folks '11 sit all night, 
List'nin' t' th' "stars" take flight 

Up past upper G; 
Must be I believe jest those 
Who are showin' off their clothes. 
Or some jewelry they've got — 
When they claim t' like sech rot — 

What else kin it be? 

'Taint like them sweet songs uv old — 
"Silver Threads Among Th' Gold," 
"Nellie Gray, " an' "Bonnie Doon," 
An' that other wondrous tune — 

Comin' Thro' th' Rye." 
Aint no op'ry music writ 
Which has quite compared with it. 
An' my Mother, oh! how she, % 

Sweetly sung 'em all t' me — 

In th' days gone by. 

We don't want no op'ry air 
When we'd drive away dull care. 
We jest hum some song which we 
Learned t' know^, at Mother's knee — 

Fer t' cure th' blues. 
I'll bet anything I own, 
When a feller's all alone, 
Pinin' fer some friend w^hat's gone 
Where it's everlastin' dawn — 

TTiat's the kind he'll choose. 



BUCKWHEAT CAKES 

Tell you what I like these days, 'bout 

th' time 1 crawl from bed, 
An' git on my duds an' go down t' where 

our brood is fed; 
That is, what 1 mean to say's, I don't 

think there's nuthin' takes 
Sech a grip on me, by heck! az them good 

old buckwheat cakes. 

Grape-fruit an' them high-toned things, 

like az not hez got some charm 
Fer th' folks who never aint, lived upon 

an old-time farm; 
An' haint had no Mother what stands afore 

th' stove an' bakes, 
'Till their fit fer eny King, good old 

homemade buckw^heat cakes. 

Gosh all hemlock! hick'rv bark! How I 

useter set an' gaze 
At that griddle, all greased slick with 

a pork-rind, in them days 
When my appetite was strong, an' I had 

t' put on brakes, 
Fear uv founderin' myself, eatin' them 

old buckwheat cakes. 

Take your pre-di-gested foods! none uv 

them fer me, I say: 
An' them shredded things at look like 

a bunch uv musty hay. 
But fer me, jest let me hear, my old 

Mammy say, "Land sakes! 
"Jim, my boy, that beats th* world, you've 

et eighteen buckwheat cakes." 



THE JOY OF MOTORING 

A motor car is sure a joy. I've leeirned 

to know such is the case: 
It takes a fellow far from home and often 

brings him face to face 
With things he never dreamed could be, and 

all goes like a marriage bell, 
'Til something happens to the thing, and 

then it makes him feel like, — well 

As I was saying, all's serene w^hile gas and 

tires and spark are right: 
A fellow's mind is sweet and pure, his hopes 

rise high, his heart is light: 
He speeds along the countryside, and thinks 

no sport can this excel, — 
Just then a blow-out greets his ear! he 

throttles down and says: "Oh! w^ell 

"It's just a little trouble p'raps, a worn 

out casing which can be 
"Quite quickly changed," he jacks her up 

and takes the inner out to see. 
He puts a new one in and pumps the blamed 

thing up, but stops to dwell 
Between the strokes, and w^ipe his brow, and 

mutters, "Gee! it's hot as" — well 

I said before, there is no sport w^hich 

can in any way compare 
With motoring along the roads to breathe 

the fresh and balmy air: 
To see where lives the farmer-man who 

raises corn and oats to sell, — 
That is, I mean it's really nice, when 

ev'rything is running well. 



BILL SMITHERS 

Bill Smithers was a mighty man — 

To hear him tell it. 
For ev'ry problem he'd a plan — 

To hear him tell it. 
Why, I have seen him stand all day, 
And argue just to have his way — 
He'd talked all night if folks 'ud stay 

To hear him tell it. 

The men he knew were always wrong- 
To hear him tell it. 
It wasn't hard to get along — 

The way he'd tell it. 
Folks all got to know him, so 
As soon's he started in, they'd go, — 
He'd pointed out the facts you know — 
To hear him tell it. 

Heaven w^as made for chaps like Bill — 

To hear him tell it. 
But, his religion spread a chill — 

Whene'er he'd tell it. 
He said, "don't let your left hand see 
"What t'other does;" and I'll agree 
He to that doctrine stuck, by gee! 

I've heard him tell it. 

I'll bet it made Saint Peter grin — 

To hear Bill tell it. 
How crowns were very hard to win — 

As Bill would tell it. 
I s'pose he still shoots his hot air, 
Where ev'rything is pure and fair; 
So deliver me from going there — 
To hear him tell it. 



AND HE WAS RIGHT 

A friend told me — and meant it too; 
"It's easy for both me and you 
"To find a lot of work to do;" 
And he was right. 

Old Deacon Frisbie used to say 
In his old fashioned Yankee w^ay, — 
"Th' folks who dance by heck, must pay;"— 
And he was right. 

A wise man once wrote on a wall, — 
"False pride is sure some day to fall 
"And leave a fellow feeling small:" 
And he was right. 

And someone said in language plain, — 
"There's no great loss without some gain; 
"And sunshine always follow^s rain:" — 
And he was right. 

I'd like to live so folks would be 
Content to say nice things of me; 
And when I leave, say honestly, — 
"And he was right." 



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